Spontaneous fun with words: 03 (London)

A musician friend posted a message on WeChat, saying that the number of people receiving Covid vaccinations perhaps means that public performances are not far off. 

I posted a response in support, saying — again without any conscious effort at the choice of words:

We can only hope (and pray that you can play [music] again).

PS:  Haha, it’s just occurred to me, one day after posting the above, that “pray” and “play” will be problematic for language groups that don’t distinguish between “r” and “l”, which will be even more interesting:  “…pray that you can pray again.”

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 08 (London)

Mr. Weys told me this story himself.

He’d met his Thai wife in the SOAS Junior Common Room.

When he decided that he’d like to marry her, Mr. Weys, being old school, wrote to her father in Bangkok to ask for her hand in marriage.

He waited.  No reply.  He waited further.  Still no reply.

Mrs. Weys, however, did receive a letter from her father, warning her to “watch out for these dodgy foreigners”.

For those unfamiliar with British English:

dodgy: (British, informal) dishonest, unreliable; potentially dangerous; of low quality

(London, early 1950s)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 07 (Taiwan)

Mr. Weys told me this story himself.

He had spent some time in Taiwan during the early 1950s, on his way to Japan.  

In those days, people in Taiwan were rather hostile to the idea of Oriental women mixing with Occidental men.  

When I worked there from 1975 to 1976, I got a lot of abuse: sometimes outright / verbally to my face, often as a side comment, and certainly in the looks and treatment I got.  I was working for Conoco, an American oil company, so I mingled with the expat community: people who worked with KLM, Hoechst, Schlumberger, just to name three off the top of my head.  

I’d be walking along with my 6’ 6” (=1.98m) white American boss, heading for the coffee house, socially distanced, late morning in broad daylight, no tight-fitting and/or low-cut dress, but people would still glare and then carefully time and position their spitting to land a few inches behind me, right on the spot where my foot had just been a second previously.  (I was lucky they were so considerate.  It would’ve been more unpleasant if they’d gone for the foot itself, or my face.) 

If I was with a white couple, I couldn’t possibly be a “bar girl” given that the wife was present, so I’d get treated like a maid — with disdain or be blanked.

It was this kind of environment that Mrs. Weys, Thai-born and therefore Oriental looking, found herself in when she and Mr. Weys went on their daily journeys to their Mandarin classes.  

In the end, she was so riled by the staring and the animosity that they had to take separate buses to their Mandarin classes.

(Taiwan, early 1950s)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 06 (London)

The SOAS Chinese Section had a tradition of throwing a farewell party for the final year students every year after their final exams were over— but before the results.

The lecturers would take turns in hosting another one at home.

At the departmental party, I found myself standing next to Mr. Weys.  He asked if I was feeling relieved now that the exams were over.  I said, “No, I’m actually terribly worried.  The Japanese unseen-text paper was a killer: one passage was on Buddhism, one was on philosophy, one was on literature.  I was guessing like mad, and changing and re-changing my mind.  The Tippex [whiting-out liquid] was so thick it got too lumpy to write on the same spot, I had to write above or below!”

In those days, we didn’t do modules with tests at regular intervals spread out over the year, every year.  We had one end-of-first-year exam, to show that we could carry on with the subject for the rest of the course (the next three years in my case).  Once we passed that first-year exam, we would carry on exam-free until Year 4. 

The condition was that we had to pass every single category:  Major, Minor, Special Subject.  If you failed any of the three categories, even if by only one mark, you wouldn't get your degree.  I think this was to stop students focusing on their strong category/categories and letting their good marks in those categories pull up the final overall mark.  That would make sense for an all-rounder education.  It was this proviso that was making me so nervous after that Japanese unseen-text paper with the Buddhism, Philosophy and Literature passages.

Mr. Weys excused himself and left the party room.  A few minutes later, he returned, “I’ve just gone to the departmental office and looked in my pigeon hole, in case Professor O’Neill, who’s the first marker, has done his marking and passed it on to me, the second marker.  He has, and I’ve had a quick look at your script.  According to Professor O’Neill’s marking, you’re OK.  So, nothing to worry about.”  I was able to enjoy the rest of the party.  Bless him.

A week later, we went to the second party hosted by Dr. Paul Thompson at his house.  When Mr. Weys arrived, he came and sat next to me in the garden, “You know you were so worried about your Japanese Unseen paper, and I told you that you were OK, according to Professor O’Neill’s first marking?  Well, I’ve since had a closer look at it, and I’m happy to tell you that you’re more than OK.”

(London, 1981)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 05 (London)

Five years later, I was back at SOAS, this time as staff, working on two Chinese computer research projects: Speech Recognition and Speech Synthesis, and Computer-Aided Language Learning (CALL).

The Chinese Section had always frequented the SOAS bar — students AND lecturers.  Students from the Japanese Section would join us, complaining that their lecturers were so boring, never going to the bar.

During one of these bar sessions, with Mr. Weys present as well, I was reminiscing about the old days, and mentioned the vase and results incident, saying, “It surprises me to this day how I managed to give you a hug and not break any of your ribs.”  

Mr. Weys looked at me rather reproachfully, “And you’ve never repeated it since.”

(London, 1986)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 04 (London)

Mrs. Liu was retiring after my final year.  My classmates were all going away after the exams, so I was tasked with buying her retirement present.  I chose an upright blue and white vase (about 8 inches tall):  the blue and white combination looks Chinese; it can be used as a vase for cut flowers or Chinese calligraphy brushes.

Went in to SOAS to present it to Mrs. Liu, hugging the wrapped-up vase to keep it safe.  It was around noon.

Took the lift up to the third floor, where the Chinese Section was.  Just as I was stepping out of the lift, Mr. Weys walked past.  

He said: “Ah, you must’ve heard then?”

Me, totally baffled: “Heard what?”

Mr. Weys: “Today’s when the results are published.  I’ve just come from the exam board meeting.  I thought that’s why you’re here —to find out about your results.”

I felt the blood drain from my whole body.  If I’d known the results would be out, I’d have stayed away for sure, such is the coward that I am.

Mr. Weys continued: “Since you’re here, I’ll tell you now then.”

When he told me what I’d got, I burst into tears, and put my arms around him.  To this day, I still don’t know how I managed to hug Mr. Weys and not drop the vase.  Even more surprisingly, how I managed not to break his ribs with the vase between us.

He saw that I was shaking too: “Oh dear, I think you’re in need of a sherry.”

He led me to his (then-Acting Departmental Head) office, where he produced a bottle of sherry.  (So, teachers in those days kept a bottle in their office then…!). The first glass was gulped down in one go — my explanation is that sherry glasses/portions are rather small…. 

Mr. Weys saw that I was still dazed, “I think you need another one.”  This was noon!

(London, 1981)

In memory of Mr. George Weys: 03 (London)

Mr. Weys taught classical Chinese at SOAS.

The routine was:  each student would get called by name, then start reading aloud one line, then translate.

During the reading aloud, students would often give the wrong half of a two-character compound if only one of the characters was presented in the text.  For example, 邀 yāo (from the compound 邀請 / 邀请 yāoqǐng / “invite invite”) would get read as qǐng (請 / 请).

Mr. Weys would say, “The other one.”

The first time he did this, we’d be a bit confused, not knowing what he meant.  After a couple more times, we’d twig, and choose the other sound of the compound.

I have since been applying this in my teaching (yes, students all make the same mistakes, whichever generation they might be), and say, “The other one.”

When students produce garbled renditions and I give them a coherent one, they’re often surprised and ask, “How did you know that was what I meant / wanted to say?!” 

My reply: “You are all like my babies.  A mummy can decode all the goo-goo ga-ga’s of her baby.”  This was said with Mr. Weys in mind:  his knowing that when the student gives the wrong sound, s/he really means “the other one”.

(London, 1978–1981)